


Pink

by mataglap



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, Crack, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 19:16:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14171685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mataglap/pseuds/mataglap
Summary: The fact that they are on the same side, on the same team and fighting for more or less the same cause doesn't change the fact that Hanzo Shimada and Jesse McCree compete abouteverything.





	Pink

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MissDelish (Vimeddiee)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vimeddiee/gifts).



The fact that they are on the same side, on the same team and fighting for more or less the same cause doesn't change the fact that Hanzo Shimada and Jesse McCree compete about _everything_.

They one-up each other fiercely regardless of the subject of competition, in all matters big and small, from shooting scores to who can better hold their liquor, and neither of them is above pulling every dirty trick in the book to gain an advantage. McCree has always been competitive to the point of idiocy, Hanzo is too proud to accept being second best in anything, and their tentative friendship is only salvaged by neither of them being a particularly sore loser — they both simply choose not to accept a loss as anything else as a temporary state preceding their inevitable victory.

All these things considered, when the topic of D.Va's choice of combat apparel and the color of it in particular becomes a subject of discussion on one boring afternoon, nobody on the base is surprised by the speed with which things escalate.

Underestimating Hana Song falls squarely into the category of "the last mistake you will ever make". McCree had figured that out pretty quickly; Hanzo took a bit longer than that. Maybe it was the cultural differences, or maybe just Hanzo's habit of looking down his nose at everyone, but the verbal sparring between the archer and the MEKA pilot escalated quite far up the 'yikes' scale before the two learned to respect each other. Their banter is still razor-sharp, but there's no malice in it anymore, and so McCree is not alarmed at all when he hears Hanzo ribbing D.Va about the combat applications of her eye-wateringly pink jacket; he just chuckles, puts his feet up on the opposite chair and wishes somebody had thought to make popcorn. 

The predatory glint in D.Va's eye doesn't register until it is too late. "It takes _balls_ to wear bright colors in battle," she declares and blows a pink gum bubble as if to accentuate the point. "And it takes _massive_ balls to shove the stereotypes up the society's collective throat. I bet neither of you smartasses would have the balls to wear pink on a mission, so don't even try to smack-talk me."

Hanzo straightens minutely in his chair, and McCree immediately senses danger. "Sure I would, but I ain't paintin' my gear pink just to prove a point," he says quickly.

Hanzo side-eyes him briefly before looking back at D.Va with the air of unflappable superiority. "It is not my choice of color, and satisfying your curiosity is not enough of a reason to invest in a separate set of clothing."

D.Va smiles like a shark that scented blood in the water, and McCree knows they've already lost. "Doesn't have to be all pink," she says immediately. "Throw on enough pink accents and accessories and you can keep your boring old man colors underneath."

"Excuse you," McCree has to object in the name of sartorial justice, "my getup ain't _boring_."

"Please. When was the last time you wore something that wasn't brown or red?" McCree opens his mouth, but D.Va barrels on. "That wasn't part of a disguise? And no, underwear doesn't count."

"Well, I'm in favor of goin' commando, actually," he says easily, hoping to derail the conversation before it accelerates into inevitable doom, but Hanzo merely gives him a single arched eyebrow before folding his arms and raising his chin in a gesture that McCree knows all too well.

"And who shall be the judge of whether the amount of pink is enough?"

Well, shit.

***  
   


Of course McCree can't resist a dumb challenge. He's physically unable to do so. Only after everyone has laughed their fill and after they all shake on the bet, he steps outside to light up and allow himself a moment of quiet regret.

At least the bet isn't about something like going in the buff, and he won't have to suffer looking like a walking collection of scars next to Hanzo's impeccable physique, but he has no doubts that the proud bastard will still somehow make the whole pink thing look good. Months of experience say he'll magically be hot _and_ regal in any old rag, pink or not.

Damned if McCree won't make him work for it, though.

He pulls on the cigarillo, fills his mouth with smoke, considers the logistics of obtaining some pink bits and bobs. Three days till they leave for Dorado is more than enough to borrow a thing here and there; he remembers Mei's got a pink silk scarf he could use as a band for his stetson, and Zarya likes bright happy colors, she's bound to have something as well. There's a used clothing outlet in town and a charity store of some sort, and McCree's no filthy rich yakuza prince but he can afford a few pieces to gussy himself up for a bet.

He blows out a ring of smoke and smiles despite himself: it's been a while since someone last talked him into dumb shenanigans. He better make it count.

***  
   


Mercy has always grimly prophesied that smoking would be McCree's downfall, and damned if that doesn't prove true earlier than he had expected. Turns out that while McCree was enjoying his cigarillo, Hanzo, the absolute bastard, went through the base and gathered everything he could that was even close to pink, every goddamn thing, from Mei's scarf to Zarya's terrycloth wristbands, and all that's left for McCree is confused questions about the sudden mass desire to wear pink.

Hanzo doesn't even need all that stuff. He's just securing the win conditions and making sure that McCree loses the bet, and boy, doesn't that boil the blood in McCree's veins.

"You're goin' _down_ , Shimada," he growls and goes to find the keys to the truck.

The used clothes shop is a bust: the only pink items they have is a bunch of kiddies' stuff and a little lacy number that wouldn't even fit any of the Overwatch ladies, let alone McCree, who's a grown-ass man and not on the small side, either. He does consider utilizing it for a hat ornament — it's about the only part of him it would fit — but it doesn't quite look right, so he gives the clerk who's looking at him funny a winning smile and leaves the premises a little bit worried.

The charity store, though, that's a goldmine and a half, and McCree damn near hugs the little old lady with a motherly smile who not only doesn't give him any dirty looks, but takes his plight to heart like he's her own grandkid and combs the displays, the shelves _and_ the storeroom for anything that even remotely qualifies as pink. It all makes a beautiful, offensively colored pile that's threatening to spill off the counter.

"Yes," breathes McCree, grabbing a fleece blanket in a blinding shade of fuchsia. "Perfect."

The lady pats him on the forearm. "It does suit you, darling. Can I suggest these to go with it?"

It's a pair of pink mittens with a big fluffy pompom hanging off each, and they would be promising, except there's no way one could fit over McCree's huge paw, to say nothing of the prosthesis. He almost puts them away before he spies a roll of thick satin ribbon and gets an idea. The mittens go into the bag, along with the ribbon and the sewing kit he's gonna need, and he's half-heartedly sorting through the rest of the pile, ready to call it a day and win this goddamn bet, when the lady jumps, exclaims "one moment!", and scurries back into the storeroom without another word.

When she comes back, all he can do is blink slowly and whistle. "Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit," he says in helpless awe.

"I forgot about Halloween costumes," says the lady, beaming. "Thought this one might tickle your fancy."

It's a — McCree doesn't even know what it's supposed to be. A ballerina? A princess? A princess ballerina? It's an adult-sized set of a glittery pink leotard and a pink tutu and the most _amazingly_ tacky tiara on a wide pink band, and there's so much pink and glitter and fake gemstones he can feel his teeth rotting just from looking at it.

If McCree is making a clown of himself, he's going to do it in _style_. Hanzo will have _nothing_ on him.

"I need this," he says with emphasis.

Back in the base, the tiara adorns his stetson. The pompoms sewn onto ribbons make for great little spurs. The leotard is way too small to fit over his chestpiece, and McCree's desire to win the bet doesn't quite extend to risking a dumb death from a stray bullet, but the tutu is on a stretchy band and goes over his belt just fine. McCree drapes the makeshift fuchsia serape around his shoulders, cocks his hip and tips his hat at his reflection.

"Lookin' damn fine," he drawls.

He can't wait to see D.Va's face, and more importantly, he can't wait to see if Hanzo somehow manages to beat this.

***  
   


D.Va is impressed. She doesn't say it, of course, but McCree can see it in her eyes. She is in damn awe of his pink getup and she better be, after all the effort he's put into it. Winston doesn't share her appreciation, McCree can just see the storm brewing, but he's in full victory mode now and all that matters is winning the bet.

"You're owning it, man," says Lúcio once he's done laughing, and then there's a noise from the door that sounds distinctly like choking.

They all turn.

It's Hanzo. Hanzo in a fluffy pink bathrobe and with his hair tied with Mei's glossy pink scarf. The robe's left sleeve is off and tucked into his belt, the scarf is knotted into an absurdly large bow, and he doesn't look regal at all. Doesn't even look hot. He looks like an idiot just as much as McCree does, and he's currently staring at McCree, red in the face, eyes watering, mouth trembling in a heroic attempt to maintain his usual stern expression. McCree takes all of this in, blinks twice and doubles up laughing; Hanzo's wobbly composure shatters immediately.

Fifteen minutes later, after they've recovered from mass hysteria, listened to a lecture from Winston about compromising their safety and declared they are not in any way impeded by the unconventional gear, they roll out into the streets of Dorado with matching grins on their faces.

***  
   


The mission is a complete bust. Any quietly repressed worries McCree might have had about being a big, fat, bright target for enemies to shoot at prove unfounded when they find no enemies at all. Either Los Muertos have given up on the goods, or the leak Athena received was fake. McCree's been fixing to see some juicy reactions to his getup, shoot some assholes and maybe put a fist in a face or two, and he's been especially looking forward to tipping his tiara-adorned hat at someone after thoroughly kicking their ass, and the evening of hanging around a truck doing absolutely damn nothing has left him weirdly unfulfilled.

All that's left is to wait for a transport, get back to the Orca, fly home and return all the gear to the charity shop. So anticlimactic.

"Looks like you got off easy," Lúcio comments offhandedly, busy practicing lightskating tricks on the graffiti-covered wall as they wait for the transport to arrive. 

McCree catches Hanzo's eye and recognizes that glare: it's the same cranky look he's probably wearing, the _I went to all the trouble for this?_ , and that does it. "I'm gonna go grab a drink or two," he declares, pushing away from the wall. "Who's with me?"

"I'll join you," says Hanzo immediately. It almost sounds eager, and the sudden glint in the archer's eye tells McCree that he knows exactly what sort of place McCree has in mind. Nobody else seems interested, possibly having correctly interpreted the declaration as 'I'm going to get drunk and cause a public disturbance', and McCree's just about to turn towards the exit when D.Va digs something out of her purse and throws it at him without a word. He catches it on reflex: it's a credit chip.

"You won the bet," she says with a knowing grin. "I don't have an ID on me and the MEKA won't walk itself back, but you two have fun, I'm paying."

McCree gives her a wink. "Much obliged."

The bar he's thinking of is an old Los Muertos watering hole. There is absolutely no way they can walk in there and remain undisturbed, and even less when they're dressed like this. McCree cuts a look at Hanzo stalking quietly at his side and wonders if he should give him a heads-up, then decides against it — hell, the archer would probably get offended by that sort of advice.

His decision proves sound right after they enter the bar. Hanzo takes quick stock of the surroundings, then marches straight towards the already frowning bartender and leans in to speak into his ear. McCree follows, intrigued, drops onto a barstool — the damn tutu gets in the way, but a bet is a bet, he's not taking the thing off until he steps back into the Orca — and watches the bartender's expression cycle through frustration and disbelief to end somewhere in the vicinity of amusement.

"What'd you tell him?" he asks quietly as soon as Hanzo takes a seat.

"That I'll pay for all damages," Hanzo replies with a startlingly ferocious grin, and whoa, okay, McCree thought he'd long come to terms with the fact of Hanzo's unfair attractiveness, but he was not prepared for the flash of sharp canines and the glint of black eyes at minimal distance. He hurriedly orders two bourbons, neat, and forcibly steers his brain onto safer waters, like picking which one of the Muertos to provoke if they don't do them the courtesy of starting something, or planning the escape route if the reinforcements arrive too fast.

He tries not to look at Hanzo, not too much, anyway, but it's damn hard. The archer, who would normally at least wrinkle his nose at McCree's uncivilized choice of drink, possibly even complain loudly about his brutish sensibilities, grabs the glass without a word and knocks the whole damn thing back, smooth as all get out. Doesn't even clear his throat. It sends a hot shiver across McCree's skin, and he chases it away quickly with his own drink.

"I see you mean business today," he murmurs, leaning slightly towards Hanzo's ear.

Hanzo's mouth curls up into another sharp smile. "I did not come here to enjoy the decor. Order more."

McCree signals for more booze. There's something in that smile that makes him brave. "What about the company?"

"The company is," Hanzo leans briefly away to give him a slow and obvious once-over, " _fine_."

 _Hoooo-leeeee shit._ McCree grins giddily, silently tells his dick to calm the hell down and reaches for his refilled glass before he can do something stupid, like reaching for Hanzo instead.

After the third round, the Muertos still haven't made a move, and he's ready to stand up and start the goddamn thing himself to get rid of the buzzing under his skin, when he hears the first catcall and a burst of laughter from the round table in the corner. Seems like the chuckleheads decided to focus on Hanzo, for reasons unknown, because the archer has not bothered to pull the left sleeve up — on second thought, it might be that he can't, the robe is probably Mei's and it's far too narrow across the shoulders — and the yakuza tattoo is visible in all its dangerous glory. Surely they don't think he's an easier target out of the two of them.

Then again, McCree reflects, rolling the bourbon around his tongue, these dumbasses might not even know what a yakuza is.

"Why don't you come sit in my lap, sweetheart?" yells one of the Muertos; his companions react with a chorus of whistles and lewd noises. McCree turns to look at Hanzo just in time to see him drain his glass, put it decisively on the counter and jump off the seat.

"Be right back," says Hanzo calmly. The loud cracking of knuckles that accompanies the parting words is a mite theatrical and weirdly hot. McCree's still got his shitty bourbon and now that he's well on the way to drunk he can actually enjoy it, so he leans comfortably against the dirty surface of the bar, takes a sip and contentedly watches Hanzo upend the table in Los Muertos' faces.

The poor bastards are outnumbered one to three. One doesn't even manage to stand up before he gets a faceful of table, and the other two make the mistake of lunging directly at Hanzo. Hanzo simply sidesteps one, all ninja-like, and redirects his momentum into the other; McCree whistles quietly when their skulls make contact with a crack that can be heard even through the noise of many people getting up from their chairs at once.

He had expected Hanzo to be good at this, having seen him forced into close quarters a few times, but he did not expect him to be in his goddamn _element_. It is such a fine sight that he freezes with the glass halfway to his mouth and watches with bated breath as Hanzo punches another attacker squarely in the chin.

The bartender leans resignedly against the bar next to him. "You're not going to help your friend?"

"I think he's fine," McCree says dreamily.

He can't tear his eyes away from the way Hanzo's biceps bulge while he attempts to choke two Muertos at once, so he feels more than sees the exasperated look. "That's not what I— whatever." A shotgun appears right next to McCree's elbow. "He better not forget he's paying."

McCree replies with a distracted hum. Harboring a quiet crush on an aloof and impeccable archer who elegantly sends arrows from a distance is one thing, but watching him sweaty, disheveled and grinning like a maniac while he puts a fist in a gangster's ugly mug is another thing entirely, and yep, now McCree's getting a boner for real. He swears, shrugs the makeshift serape off, drops the hat on the bar, sends the glass through the air to land on the head of a man who's trying to sneak up on Hanzo from behind, and jumps into the fray.

As soon they make eye contact, Hanzo throws a man at him. McCree steps aside and clotheslines him with an extended prosthetic arm, and there's a definite glint of appreciation in Hanzo's eyes before he reverse headbutts a skull-painted face behind him; the man staggers back, still holding onto the archer's sleeve, and the sound of ripped fabric is as loud as a gunshot. Hanzo's eyes widen briefly, then narrow with murderous intent. McCree realizes he has forgotten about his own involvement in favor of watching when he gets a fist to the jaw; it's a glancing blow, really, it merely sends him reeling a bit, but Hanzo still lunges past him, teeth bared, and cuts the assailant's legs from under him so McCree can deliver a deserved kick to his head.

He had never really understood the appeal of dancing before, but he thinks he might now, as Hanzo dodges another attack and yanks the man around straight into McCree's waiting fist, all the while holding his gaze with a smirk, and then crouches and elbows another one in the solar plexus, sending him face first onto McCree's kneepad. They never fought together like this, never even practiced, and yet Hanzo responds to his every move and McCree responds to his, and they're grinning and very drunk and wreaking havoc and it's _exhilarating_ , and McCree thinks he might be more than a little bit in love.

***  
   


Hanzo is a man of his word, and he pays for the outrageously overestimated damage with the poise of a lord bestowing a gift upon his faithful vassal, heedless of the blood slowly dripping from his nose onto his mostly naked chest. He magnanimously allows McCree to pay for the drinks, at least, with D.Va's money but it's the thought that counts, and they throw back one more bourbon for the road before hobbling out with moderate haste.

They lean heavily on each other, sore and drunk on more than just booze. Hanzo's still grinning, his hand hot like a brand around McCree's neck, and McCree doesn't even care anymore, just stares at him openly, starry-eyed.

"You got a little somethin' on your robe," he snickers.

Hanzo looks down at the blood-spattered fabric, finally notices he's bleeding, and unceremoniously wipes his face with the half-ripped sleeve. "I will have to buy Mei a new one." He glances up at McCree with a smile. "You're not looking much better."

The tutu is but a memory at this point, ripped clean off the waistband by an overenthusiastic assailant, and there's a bunch of bloody fingerprints all over the fuchsia blanket. McCree's heart does a happy little somersault at the thought that most of them are from Hanzo's glove. He pulls the tiara off the hat, puts it on his head at a jaunty angle and shoots Hanzo a roguish smile. "I'm lookin' mighty fine, thank you."

"You are," Hanzo agrees and leans heavier into McCree's side. McCree barely has time to get over the palpitations he gets from that statement before Hanzo stops dead in his tracks and starts digging, one armed, in the satchel on his belt. "We need to send a photo to D.Va," he explains, producing his phone, and pulls harder on McCree's neck to bring him close. McCree obediently grins at the camera, eyes maybe going a little unfocused at the sudden closeness of a warm and drunk and handsy archer, and bursts out laughing when Hanzo turns the phone to demonstrate the picture.

They look like bloodied, grinning, absolute madmen. 

"Make sure to add that most of that blood ain't ours," he laughs while Hanzo thumbs out a message, tightening the arm he has around the archer's waist and absolutely _not_ pointing out that he'd have an easier time writing if he let go of McCree's neck.

"There," says Hanzo, satisfied, and a split second before he presses 'send', McCree notices the all-caps caption under the selfie.

BEST. DATE. EVER.

He freezes, heart about to leap out of his chest. He thinks he may have made a noise, because Hanzo turns his head to look at him and frowns.

"I don't care what you think," he declares, drunkenly obstinate, and meaningfully tightens the arm around McCree's shoulders before pulling away. "It _was_."

"It absolutely was," breathes McCree, grabs Hanzo by the waist, pulls him back into an embrace, and presses a painfully split lip to his temple.

A moment passes. "I'm bleeding on your blanket. Serape," says Hanzo in a somewhat nasal voice.

McCree smiles against his forehead. "'S okay. I just smeared blood all over your face."

"Not all of it," says Hanzo meaningfully, and before McCree can process that, he gets yanked down and into a kiss. It's hungry and sloppy, it hurts and it tastes of copper, it's the best kiss of McCree's life, and he clings to Hanzo until Hanzo's shivering in his arms and he gets lightheaded from the lack of air, and until they hear a police siren in a worryingly close distance.

Hanzo pulls away, grinning hotly, mouth smeared with blood like a vampire. "Race you to the Orca. On three…"

McCree doesn't even acknowledge him: he books it at a dead sprint straight away, chased by the sound of Hanzo's outraged protest.

 

 

[](http://vimeddiee.tumblr.com/post/171937280371/vimeddiee-hana-dares-them-to-wear-pink-for-a)

[](http://vimeddiee.tumblr.com/post/171937280371/vimeddiee-hana-dares-them-to-wear-pink-for-a)

[](http://vimeddiee.tumblr.com/post/171937280371/vimeddiee-hana-dares-them-to-wear-pink-for-a)

**Author's Note:**

> So [Vimeddiee](https://twitter.com/vimeddiee) and I complained a bit in Discord about the flood of wildly OOC Hanzos on Valentine's Day, and we might have come up with a bit of crack to soothe our delicate sensibilities. [The rest is silence](http://vimeddiee.tumblr.com/post/171937280371/vimeddiee-hana-dares-them-to-wear-pink-for-a).
> 
>  
> 
> Visit me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/matawrites) if you ever want to say hi or send a prompt!


End file.
